The Declining Detective
by Deb Zorski
Summary: A fatal virus is causing widespread panic in London, which delays John with long hours at the hospital. When Sherlock becomes infected and his health declines too quickly, how will John manage to save him? Sherlock sickfic.
1. Sunday

_Since "Dying Detective" is my #1 favorite story of the canon (I get suckered in every time!), I was up late last night trying to figure out how the BBC writers might approach the story... ~DZ~_

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Sherlock Holmes never read the news, because it always seemed to John that he automatically _knew_ it as soon as it was headlining. But for once, Sherlock was acting like any other normal person who reads the newspaper on a Sunday morning, and it was the newspaper that was out of character: **TWO FOUND DEAD FROM UNKNOWN VIRUS!**

"I thought London's newspapers kept it simple," John commented and Sherlock lowered the paper with a glowering scowl.

"It's the _news_." Sherlock stated obviously so that John would understand. "They make their living off blowing things out of proportion. Two people being found dead on the same day is pure coincidence." He tossed the paper casually on the table, where John picked it up to read more.

"Apparently not… did you even _read_ this?"

"I won't waste brain power on a pointless-"

"It's not a coincidence, Sherlock. They were found dead last night, on opposite sides of the city. They were young and healthy, both in their late 20's." John summarized from the article.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, the detail momentarily grabbing his attention before he dismissed it yet again. "So they ate from the same Chinese takeaway, and had nothing else in common. This isn't news, John."

"Not for you, but I'm a doctor. A headline like this causes panic in most people." John kept scanning the article. "Scotland Yard officials found no marks of violence on the bodies, but cannot comment further without a complete investigation."

"They couldn't have even commented in the first place." Sherlock smirked. "Well, John, aren't epidemics in your line of work?"

John sighed, flopping the paper back on the table and getting to his feet. He was due at the hospital in 30 minutes, and he knew he'd have to run the clinic. "It isn't an epidemic. And you're overdue for a case, so try answering some emails. The clients would love to hear from you instead of me typing for you."

"Those cases are thoroughly _un_interesting. As is the headline news." Sherlock rose and strode to the window, his dressing gown billowing momentarily by his movements. He picked up his violin and started to play, gaze drifting out the window to watch the street below. John shook his head, realizing he'd have _more_ unanswered emails to read over once he got home later_… much_ later…from the hospital.


	2. Monday

John didn't arrive back at 221B until nearly 1 a.m., and Sherlock's room was surprisingly dark. _Maybe his insomnia is finally giving him a night off_, John pondered briefly, before collapsing into bed himself. Widespread panic was exactly what he had faced all day, to the point of turning away patients and telling them to return tomorrow morning just so he and the other doctors could keep the crowd somewhat manageable. At this rate, his new bedroom for the week might be somewhere in the hospital instead of at Baker Street. John sighed, drifting off to sleep with a troubled mind of his looming schedule ahead.

Monday morning brought its usual internal moans in John's spirit and persistent aches from his war wounds, as well as two additional surprises: Sherlock had left early for a sudden case and the morning news proclaimed the virus death toll now up to four. Things were getting serious, a fact only confirmed by John's buzzing mobile.

"Watson, we need you here at Bart's now." Dr. Testa's voice was more irritable than usual, and John realized the chatter in the background must be a waiting room already filled with worrisome patients. "Conley and I are trying to calm the crowd but we need you in the ICU. We found three more infected."

"What about the lab tests from yesterday? Do we have any idea what we're up against?" Tea and a shower would have to wait until later, John realized.

"Only what we can see… it starts with a headache and fever then moves to respiratory distress and is highly contagious. Lab results aren't back yet; it's Monday. We'll be lucky if we can have them by tomorrow at lunch. How soon can you get here?" Testa urged over the phone.

"Let me get changed and I'll get a cab. Twenty minutes." John promised.

"Check in with Infection Control once you get through the crowd in the clinic. You need to wear a suit into the iCU." He meant protective wear, and John nodded without realizing Testa couldn't see him over the phone. "We need every doctor staying healthy until we can treat this."

"_Cure_ this." John corrected. "And we will. I'm getting ready now." John hung up quickly, writing Sherlock a note to leave on the kitchen counter for whenever they would both get back home. John wasn't so sure that he would, tonight. He'd have to pack an overnight bag in case he'd be staying at the hospital.

_**Emergency at Bart's. Virus death toll up to four with more sick coming in every hour. Text me, I won't be able to call. -JW**_

* * *

"Take these, they're antivirals." Testa instructed once John came through Bart's front doors.

"But if we don't know for sure-" but John was stopped immediately.

"We can still take precautions." Testa handed him a small cup of water for the pills, then pointed to the ICU. "Shit!" He took off running, leaving John behind for the moment as he joined the swarm of other doctors trying to revive a man in the ICU. John swallowed the pills and followed inside, closing the observation curtains to try and keep the waiting room crowd calmed though uninformed. He put on a face mask quickly as there was no time for a full suit, and stayed back, safely out of the way of the other doctors rushing to save the unconscious man's life.

"He's gone, we can't keep trying."

"5 tries isn't good enough!" Testa barked.

"Andrew, he's flatlined. Just pronounce it so we can work on the other two." John looked over at the other unconscious patients. How could a virus kill five people in barely the last 24 hours?

"Time of death: 9:18 a.m." Testa looked around the room at his colleagues, feeling defeated by the limits of his profession. "Tell no one in the waiting room. We cannot handle mass hysteria."

The rest of the day fared no better. John had time to check his phone twice during the day, with no word from Sherlock, so he sent a text anyway on his dinner break. _**Staying overnight in the hospital. Are you back yet? -JW**_

He never got an answer, but that was typical of Sherlock if he was busy on a brand-new case. He'd get away sometime in the morning and check 221B himself, just to be sure. The last thing he needed was Sherlock stubbornly overworking himself and falling susceptible in the face of a highly infectious fatal virus.


	3. Tuesday morning

_Thank you SO so much for all the favorites and follows for this story! It made my day today to always have a new email to check on my phone. Your reviews are what gets me so excited to write the next chapter - please keep me motivated and keep reviewing/adding alerts! ~DZ~_

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John slept fitfully at the hospital, waking up every few hours and tapping the screen on his mobile to illuminate it. He watched the night tick by slowly, with never a word from Sherlock. He started texting Sherlock anxiously once the sun had risen, but with no response. He decided to get dressed at around 5 a.m., since he obviously wouldn't be sleeping any more for that day.

"John, there are reporters at the doors, and they want an interview with you." A nurse informed.

"Tell them I'm _working_, not blogging about Sherlock Holmes or chasing down crime at the moment." John shook his head, exasperated, then looked up at Maria standing in the doorway. "Hold on… reporters?"

"Local news."

"How the hell-"

"Word got out about the fifth death." Maria informed, shrugging helplessly.

"From who!?" John demanded. "We were all _very strictly told_-"

"Does it matter now? We've got healthy people dying left and right and we can't figure out why." Maria sounded on the verge of tears from her frustration. "I haven't been home in four days from all this, and the only reason the news crews are here is because the police won't issue a statement. School never prepped me for this kind of mess."

"Nothing prepped _any of us_ for this. We just have to keep trying." John reassured Maria, who sniffed and nodded. "Go help in the clinic. The most any of us can do is treat and get all the patients out the doors."

After Maria left, John checked his phone again, sighing. He dialed Sherlock and it went right to voicemail without a single ring. _"This is the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes, and I don't listen to voicemails. Text me instead."_ If his mobile battery was dead that would explain why John hadn't heard any answering texts from all of yesterday, but even so it worried him to hear absolutely nothing at all. Sherlock _always_ managed to find ways to contact John, even when he didn't need help on sudden drop-everything-and-just-go cases. On any other day, Sherlock would have been bugging him about every little thing happening in the flat. They were out of milk because Sherlock had used it all for an experiment and so John would need to get more because Sherlock simply would not put clothes on and just go. Even annoying things like that would have been welcomed normalcy, instead of absolute silence from the detective. It was unsettling, and only heightened John's overwhelming feelings of stress and uneasiness.

John had to make a plan. After giving the reporters a sound bite or two (where maybe, John hoped, the crowds would back off a little and stop being so hypochondriacal), John would head to Baker Street. Nothing would stop him.

His phone buzzed_. _Not Sherlock. John's face fell and his lips formed a thin line.

"John, Donovan's sick." It was Lestrade, urgently, hiding a panicked tone. "I need you to examine the rest of the team to keep us all healthy. We've still got crime scenes to check on top of all this epidemic rubbish. Will you come?"

"Whoa, Lestrade, hang on. I'm stuck at the hospital with crowds of people waiting to be treated." John started pacing in the small staff sleeping room, feeling trapped under all the strain being put on him all at once that morning. "I can't get away, and the second I do I've got to check on Sherlock."

"Don't tell me he's got it too. From the looks of Donovan, it's quick and it's bad. We sent her home yesterday and haven't even heard from her since."

Alarm bells rang in John's head at that news. He stopped dead cold mid-step. He'd just been punched in the stomach as his breath left him all at once in one exhale. Nothing at Bart's mattered anymore, and he'd start knocking people out cold if he had to just to get past the crowds blocking the hospital entrance. He_ had_ to get home,_ now_."Has anyone gone to check on her?"

"Not if she's contagious, no, of course not. She found the first victim on Saturday night. She looked alright and everything, well, up until yesterday."

"Send someone over immediately. Right now, to her flat." Watson ordered. "I'm heading to Baker Street."

"Are you bleeding mad? This thing is killing folks all over London!"

"_Exactly_, Greg. If you haven't heard a word from her since you sent her home yesterday, then-"

Watson was cut off by Lestrade's barking insane and quick orders to the rest of the precinct. "Lights and sirens on, speed through the traffic lights, drive up on the pavement, just go!" The line went silent and John's mobile screen went dark as it recognized the call had been ended.

John ran his hand over his eyes, tiredly mashing the heel of his hand into his forehead. He drew in a sharp breath and straightened himself to an erect standing posture, then blew out slowly. He felt like he was going into battle all over again, except this time he felt thoroughly _un_prepared. His mobile buzzed again.

"Lestrade, I'm on my way." John reassured without even looking at the screen.

"I need help with the case." It was definitely Sherlock, even if it sounded too husky to recognize him right away.

"Sherlock? Jesus, I've been trying to reach you. The city's in a panic."

"We read the news together before I left for the case, John. Remember?"

"Things have gotten worse." _So much worse._ "You sound like hell. Are you still away?"

"No, I'm back. Just got in. Remind me that traveling by train will not save me the headache, ever." John could hear the unspoken _I'm tired_, and it didn't help ease his fears that Sherlock may have already contracted the virus by overworking, and weakening his immune system.

"Are you feeling all right?" John pressed. The mention of a headache, even a figurative one, coupled with him even _sounding_ ill…

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock cleared his throat and sighed audibly. John decided he'd keep the news about Donovan a secret. "Just a stress headache. I'm going to bed, finally. Wake me up when you get here and I'll de-brief you on what you missed."

John tucked his mobile into his jeans pocket, got his coat on and flew out of the room. He was stopped at the end of the hallway once he turned the corner by Anthea, smartly dressed as always, and calmly checking the news on her phone as she leaned against the wall nonchalantly. "Dr. Watson, you've been requested immediately."

"I have other immediate concerns. The number one priority is his brother." John answered testily.

Anthea arched an eyebrow. "This panic is a matter of security. You're needed right away."

"I know that, people are dying! Does _he_ know!?" John raged, only for a moment since Anthea tucked away her mobile in some secret pocket and stood straight once again, looking at him expectantly. "I _really_ don't have time for this now." John sighed, resigned to Mycroft's secretive wishes as Anthea led the way out an emergency exit door into the mid-morning daylight.


End file.
